


Moonlight Sonata

by sephirothflame



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Feral Behavior, First Time, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sephirothflame/pseuds/sephirothflame
Summary: “So it’s more of a metaphor,” Jaskier says. He splashes his feet in the sulfur-rich water and drops his back to the dirty stone floor. “So you’re not really a Wolf, you’re just, you know, a Wolf.”Geralt is cursed with bestial nature on the full moon, and has gone and got himself trapped in a hole with the one person he wasn't allowing himself to want.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 673





	Moonlight Sonata

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Witcher Kink Meme @ Dreamwidth, but really, with love for my darling wife who puts up with my _why are there no comments_ every five minutes.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ bentacleporn.
> 
> I don't know what prompt to fill next. Or what to do with the upcoming Geraskier big bang, but I'm happy to be here.

“So you’re saying you’re a werewolf,” Jaskier says.  
  
Geralt growls because no, that isn’t what he’s saying at all. If the bard is going to follow him endlessly and needle the truth out of him, he might as well listen the first time. His fingers scrape over aged stone and he tugs at vines too weak to support his weight. The Elven bath house they stumbled into, quite literally, was weather worn and abandoned and their odds of climbing out of it tonight were slim. Geralt’s pulse was already quickening in anticipation and Jaskier was doing his best to pamper his spoiled ankle.  
  
“So it’s more of a metaphor,” Jaskier says. He splashes his feet in the sulfur-rich water and drops his back to the dirty stone floor. “So you’re not _really_ a Wolf, you’re just, you know, a _Wolf_.”  
  
Geralt grunts in response. There’s caved in walls he could bash in with Aard, but he doesn’t want to get lost beneath the Earth, assuming the mountain trails lead anywhere at all. He won’t need Cat once the moonlight settles in his veins, but it’s too dark for Jaskier to stumble around in. What part of _stay_ is so hard for the Bard to understand?  
  
“I was rather hoping to see you with a tail. I wasn’t allowed to have a dog growing up, my mother always said I was allergic,” Jaskier continues. Like Geralt hasn’t been all but ignoring him. “I love a nice big scruff you could just - “ Jaskier makes a vague hand gesture and shakes his head, miming rubbing his face into a dog’s fur “ - into. That would be nice.”  
  
“I would eat you,” Geralt says. The bath house is large enough, but there really isn’t much to prowl around and secure. Some aging columns that should hold up, as long as the night didn’t get too rough, and more roots for Jaskier to stumble blindly over. Not the safest hole to find themselves in, but it would do. Better to spend the night down here, where his frustration at the situation was contained.  
  
“You love me too much to eat me,” Jaskier says, waving a hand dismissively, and Geralt just hums at him in response. Propping himself up onto his elbows, Jaskier watches Geralt as he finally settles down a few feet from the Bard’s side. “So, what am I in for? What exactly is this curse supposed to do? I thought magic wasn’t supposed to work on Witchers.”  
  
The hole in the roof bathes them in moonlit shadows and the steam rising off the bath makes Geralt pull at his armor restlessly. They’ll be here for the night, he might as well be comfortable. He doesn’t speak as he strips off his armor or boots and he shoves his pants legs up to his knees in mimicry of Jaskier, dipping his toes into the almost too-hot water.  
  
“You never know what’ll happen when you piss off the right witch,” Geralt says, eventually. The moon will crest soon, at its highest peak, and Geralt will be a beast, a slave to his baser desires. To fight, to feed, to fuck. Yet he’ll be stuck in a hole in the ground with Jaskier, unable to satisfy any of them. It’s one thing to lock himself away and gorge on wyvern meat on his own terms, it’s quite another to be trapped. Geralt isn’t sure how that’s going to settle with the itch burning under his skin.  
  
The primal feeling pulses through his veins slowly. Geralt is aware of the sound of Jaskier's heartbeat, steady and familiar. So close. Jaskier is so close, Geralt could reach out and touch him -  
  
Geralt stands up suddenly and wades to the other side of the bath. "It's best you keep your distance. I could hurt you."  
  
Jaskier props himself up on his elbows and looks at Geralt curiously. Still, his heartbeat is steady and unafraid of the beast that Geralt is going to become. "Is this one of those raunchy curses where I need to protect my womanhood? Or the kind where you eat my grandmother and the huntsman?"  
  
"Jaskier," Geralt says, and it comes out like a bark. He can feel the moonlight on his skin and he tips his face up, bathing in it's glow. Time seems to slow down as he drinks in the rich magic, welcoming it into his veins as sure as any liquid rye.  
  
"Geralt?" There's a hesitance, an uncertainty, but Geralt's transformation isn't physical. No cracking bones or splitting fur, fouling the ancient bath with bloody remnants of his human form. As far as Jaskier can see, Geralt stays the same.  
  
Fuck, Geralt was an idiot to think he could suffer this with Jaskier so close. The scent of sulfur is overwhelming and makes his nose burn and Geralt is halfway around the pool in search of something tolerable to bury his face into before he realizes what he's doing. He crouches and presses the heels of his palms deep into his eye sockets.  
  
 _Mine_. The word prickles at the back of Geralt's mind, rippling through his skin with surprise possession. He peers through his fingers to look at Jaskier - Jaskier who is finally taking this seriously, sitting up and heartbeat quickening - and Geralt just growls at himself. "Stay."  
  
"I'm not a dog," Jaskier says. He's standing up and coming closer, but slowly, like one would a cornered animal. "And I don't believe you are as much as a beast as you say you are. So. Let's talk about this."  
  
Jaskier's heartbeat betrays the calmness in his voice and something bitter prickles at his scent. _Fear_. Of Geralt, of death. Still, he wades through the water until he's just out of lunge reach. He crouches, carefully balanced, and splashes water in Geralt's direction.  
  
Geralt snarls but drops his hands from his face. He stands up suddenly, again, and the blood rushes to his head. The heat of the Elven bath is making his skin sticky with sweat and Geralt tugs at his shirt. He should pull it off. Get rid of it. He should press against Jaskier as bare as -  
  
"Okay, maybe no clothes ripping," Jaskier says and Geralt hadn't even realized he'd shredded the fabric in his hands. Jaskier was still crouched, defenseless, watching Geralt with trusting eyes. When Geralt didn't move, Jaskier came to him.  
  
Growling did nothing to deter the Bard who gently peeled off the vestiges of Geralt's shirt. His fingers felt impossibly hot against Geralt's skin, but they didn't linger. A digit brushed hair from Geralt's sweaty face and he chased it with his teeth, catching the Bard against his tongue before he'd even realized what he had done.  
  
"No, Geralt," Jaskier says. His finger slides between Geralt's teeth and he wipes the spit on his own undershirt. Jaskier's heartbeat ratchets, the scent of arousal thickening in the air, and Geralt presses closer to him, dragging Jaskier against his front and burying his nose in the crook of his neck.  
  
The sound Jaskier makes is choked off and he manages to fall deeper into the pool when he pulls away, slipping off the ledge that kept the water at his shin and going under. It's barely waist high when Geralt manages to fetch the squirming Bard from the water, righting him, and it takes every ounce of self control to keep what little distance is between them.  
  
 _Jaskier doesn't want this_. The scent and tenting of his arousal is due to the situation. It isn't Geralt that Jaskier is responding to. He watches the Bard splash to the edge of the pool, heaving himself out, and it takes everything not to follow. Not to push Jaskier down onto the old stone floor and claim him the way he’s been longing to for _years_.  
  
“Okay,” Jaskier says, his voice gentle and unwavering. He strips off his soaked doublet and drops it by his bag. “I wasn’t exactly prepared for this situation, but let’s see what we can do, hm?”  
  
Geralt turns away from Jaskier and tries to focus on anything else. The sound of gentle glass bottles clinking in his bag, the tell tale signs of the Bard’s perfumes and ointments. What he’s up to, Geralt isn’t entirely sure, but he doesn’t - he doesn’t know - his self control is balanced on the blade of the knife and just the _idea_ of Jaskier’s hands on him makes him feel weak.  
  
“Come here, you great lout,” Jaskier says. He’d stripped out of the rest of his soaking clothes when Geralt was looking away and now it was impossible to look at anything else. Long and lean with plenty of sharp angles for Geralt to sink his teeth into. Jaskier’s pulse point, so delicate, thrumming with life and begging for Geralt’s mark -  
  
How Geralt manges to cross the room and not throw Jaskier onto his back, he’ll never know. Every instinct screams for it, begs for it, _mount, mate, claim_ , surging through his veins with every beating of his heart. He stops just out of Jaskier’s reach with a simple gesture from the Bard. “What do you want from me,” Geralt growls, because the uncertainty is torture.  
  
“Ah, he does still have words,” Jaskier says. He pushes and prods until Geralt is stripped and seated in the water, the second step down. The water rises to his chest as he gets comfortable, and Jaskier settles on the step behind him, above him, calloused hands pushing Geralt into the position he wants him. “Tie your hair up, would you?”  
  
  
Geralt obeys and Jaskier starts rubbing oiled hands into his shoulders. His thumbs dig in with practiced ease, familiar with where Geralt carries all of his tension. Jaskier is always so good at this, dragging Geralt away from himself and easing him up. It’s not helping the ache between Geralt’s thighs or the fire in his veins, but it’s distracting, almost. If Geralt closes his eyes, he can pretend his Bard is servicing him, submitting and caring for him. He relaxes a bit as Jaskier’s scent washes over him.  
  
“Tell me what you need, Geralt,” Jaskier says softly. _Tell me what to do to please you_.  
  
Already, Geralt is turning tense in Jaskier’s hands again. A simple request shouldn’t set off his baser desires so much, not when Jaskier doesn’t _know_ and all he’s trying to do is help. He’s trying to lull the Wolf in Geralt’s veins into a false sense of security, so they can both make it through the night. Though his hands still when Geralt turns around, Jaskier doesn’t break contact. His skin is flushed, the scent of chamomile almost as sweet as his arousal, and Jaskier is looking at Geralt like he’s expecting him to do, to say, something. Jaskier’s throat bobs as he swallows, his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Geralt growls as he drags Jaskier closer.  
  
“Tell me to stop,” Geralt says. His lips travel up the sweat-slicked side of Jaskier’s neck, tongue tracing along the vein that throbs there. His teeth scrape against Jaskier’s jaw and the Bard just trembles in his arms, pressing closer into Geralt’s chest. “Tell me to stop and I will. Otherwise…”  
  
Through the fog in his eyes, Jaskier seems to understand what Geralt is saying. His cheeks are flushed and he nods his head dumbly, for once at a loss for words. Because, this isn’t Geralt letting Jaskier drunkenly climb into his bed with a lecherous wink. This is almost two hundred pounds of feral Witcher doing his very best not to tear Jaskier to shreds. Geralt can’t promise to be gentle, to be kind, but he will force himself to stop if Jaskier just says the words.  
  
“Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, his hands cradling Geralt’s face and holding him close. “Geralt, _please_.”  
  
Any self-control Geralt thought he had left is gone.

Blood wells in the water where Jaskier scrapes his knee, getting dragged closer by Geralt. The Bard hisses sharply, pained, and Geralt just kisses him to silence him. A little bit of blood is to be expected. Geralt never promised to be gentle. He can’t make that promise, not tonight. No matter how gently Jaskier presses at his chest or moans into his mouth.  
  
“I think - I think we might be more comfortable if we got out?” Jaskier says between desperate kisses. He’s being held in place by Geralt, legs wrapped around and ass kneaded, but it doesn’t stop Jaskier from squirming in aprehension. “Fuck, a stone floor isn’t going to be any easier on my knees, but you could at least have the decency to lay me out on my clothes - “  
  
 _Shut up_ , Geralt thinks, or growls. He doesn’t know. He nips at Jaskier’s lips harder, desperate, and there’s fingers in Geralt’s hair yanking his head back. Geralt snarls, but Jaskier - Jaskier looks - beautiful. Pupils blown wide, skin flushed, water clinging to his lashes. Geralt leans in to kiss Jaskier again, and a whine escapes him when Jaskier pushes him back.  
  
“Geralt, wait,” Jaskier says. He’s got three fingers pushed to Geralt’s lips and just makes an exasperated sound when Geralt licks between them, taking them into his mouth and sucking. “Okay, okay, I wish I had known _that_ was an option a long time ago, Mister. You’re incorrigible. Out, I said.”  
  
Growling, Geralt does what he’s asked. The stone steps are steep and the water weighs them down, but Geralt manages to get Jaskier out of the pool despite his squirming and moaning. There’s no graceful way to drop him onto the floor, but Geralt probably could have thought of one that involved less squawking.  
  
“My tailbone!” Jaskier laments, flopping on his back and glaring up at Geralt. “What was that for? What happened to romance?”  
  
Geralt never promised romance.  
  
The stone hits Geralt’s knees hard as he goes down, the ache radiating up his legs, but he ignores the pain. Ignores everything but the way Jaskier’s pale thighs part automatically to make room for Geralt between them. Jaskier’s nails dig into Geralt’s shoulder, the back of his neck, drawing him in for more desperate kisses and to rock his entire body up against Geralt’s. The scent of their arousal, blending, binding them, is overwhelming. Geralt ruts against Jaskier desperately, face pressed into the Bard’s throat, just to take the edge off.  
  
If he can just -  
  
Geralt’s toes curl in anticipation and then Jaskier is biting his shoulder, like he’s in charge, like he has any right -  
  
And he comes on Jaskier’s stomach, cock pulsing heavy between their bodies. It’s a mess of sweat and come but Jaskier looks beautiful, marked up like this. The scent will linger long after Jaskier scrubs the seed from his body. Geralt will know.  
  
“Well,” Jaskier says. He props himself up onto his elbows, his own cock hard and leaking against his stomach still. He hasn’t wanted this as long, doesn’t have the fire burning in his veins that Geralt does. Still, the flushed head, peeking from his foreskin, was calling to Geralt. He wasn’t a unkind lover, he just needed to look his fill, watch Jaskier’s stomach tremble with Geralt’s come cooling on it.  
  
Geralt needed to remember what it looked and smelled like before it’s all washed away like a bad memory, something they never speak again after this night. Remember the way Jaskier looked at him from under his lashes and the shaky sound of his breath. The way he tasted as Geralt licked a line up the length of his cock and swallowed him down to the root.  
  
Jaskier was generous, plenty, but Geralt was starved and it had been so long since he yearned for a lover as much as he thirsted for Jaskier. Every inch of him, heady and rich, rubbing against his tongue and nudging his throat. Jaskier’s fingers in his hair, alternating between pulling him off and pushing him back down when Geralt sucked him just right, curled his tongue and _pressed_ -  
  
And tears pricked in Jaskier’s eyes when he came, sweet sudden salt filling the air, and if Geralt wasn’t busy cleaning every drop of the Bard’s spend, he’d lick that away, too.  
  
“I don’t think I’ve ever,” Jaskier says, choked. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his wrist and laughs, sex drunk. He tugs at Geralt’s hair, his shoulder, anything to get him to rise up, but Geralt doesn’t budge. The Bard’s hip bruises nicely in his grip and it takes him a moment to focus his cornflower blue eyes on Geralt again. “Fuck, you weren’t finished.”  
  
 _You can say stop_ , Geralt thinks. He doesn’t say the words. Doesn’t want to, even though he knows he should. He could destroy Jaskier with his selfishness, but he’s too far gone on the moonlight to care. Jaskier can say stop and it would kill Geralt to do it, but he’d much rather the Bard just let him have this. “Please.” It sounds broken on his own tongue, foreign, and Jaskier’s entire body trembles as his scent spikes in arousal, again.  
  
“Just let me, yeah,” Jaskier says. He pulls himself out from under Geralt and gropes for his trousers, his doublet, anything to shove under his knees as he gets comfortable. There’s a different bottle of oil, something more drowsy, like lavender, and Geralt holds the bottle in his hand mutely. “For, you know.”  
  
Geralt knows what it’s for. He’s used oils before, albeit none that smell quite as welcoming as this. But it’s not what he’s after. Not yet. Not when Jaskier is presenting before him, poised on his hands and knees, waiting. Waiting for Geralt. Jaskier sighs when Geralt spreads his ass open, watching his hole flutter as his thighs tense. He knows Jaskier has done this before, heard him complain about bowleggedness after a long night, but he’s never done this with Geralt. And Geralt is not an easy man to take, even when he is sober.  
  
Jaskier chokes out a shrill sound when Geralt presses the flat of his tongue to Jaskier’s rim, the Bard all but shoving his hips back for more before they’ve even started. The gentle press of Geralt’s tongue makes him moan and he licks him like he’s starving. If he never has this again, he wants this now. Wants to remember the way Jaskier pants and rocks back, cock hard between his legs again long before Geralt slicks up his fingers and breaches him.  
  
Geralt wants to get drunk on every sound Jaskier makes, lose himself in every twitch of his muscles and the racing of his heartbeat. Jaskier’s scent is richest here, between his thighs, and Geralt tongue fucks him until he has no choice to spread Jasker on his fingers if he wants anything _more_. Wants to feel Jaskier’s full body shudder as his prostate is pressed, without mercy, slick fingers fucking him with all the urgency he has for his cock.  
  
“I’m ready, ah,” Jaskier says, over and over again, two, three, four fingers down. He’s not, can’t properly be in these conditions, but the sound Jaskier makes when Geralt takes his hips in hand and guides the head of his cock past Jaskier’s hole is enough. His scent spikes again, pain and pleasure, and it’s enough to keep from ramming in and burying himself deep inside of Jaskier’s body. He feels so _small_ beneath Geralt, it would be so _easy_ to just take him…  
  
Geralt kisses his way up Jaskier’s spine, doubling over the Bard’s body beneath him.  
  
 _Move, fuck, claim_ echoes like a pounding in his head, a neverending drumbeat in time with his own heart. Geralt’s teeth scrape over Jaskier’s shoulder, tongue washing over the marks, and finally, _finally_ Jaskier consents to move.  
  
It’s slow, so torturously slow for the Wolf in his veins and his heart, but it’s good. The moans Jaskier makes are bone deep and rattling, his body trembling as he holds himself up underneath Geralt’s weight. Jaskier’s back bows, pushing his ass just that much further up, angling Geralt the way he needs him. They rock together hard, grunting and groaning, until Jaskier’s wrists give out beneath him and Geralt is lost in a desperate fervor, dragging Jaskier’s hips back to meet every sharp thrust.  
  
This time, his orgasm floods his system, making him lightheaded. He holds Jaskier close, doubled over again and grinding into him with lazy thrusts long after his cock has stopped pumping him full of seed. His hand is sticky with Jaskier’s own and Geralt licks between his fingers idly, eyes half lidded, content.  
  
“Geralt,” Jaskier says, and he sounds so weak, so soft and exposed. “You’re crushing me.”  
  
He’s half hard still when he pulls out, watching his come spill down Jaskier’s pale thighs. The stone is painful under his knees, even with Jaskier’s ruined clothes to lean on. The Bard will be feeling even worse. Carefully, Geralt drags him back to the water, savoring the hisses as Jaskier’s scrapes and bruises are dipped into the sulfur rich heat once more. He kisses Jaskier’s face, his lips, his throat, a content growl bubbling low in his throat.  
  
“Is that it then?” Jaskier asks, eventually. He’s draped into Geralt’s side, boneless, and tips his head to the side to let Geralt mouth at the spot just under his ear. “Have you sated your moon lust, you beast?”  
  
“Again,” Geralt growls. The fire is still burning in his veins, can still feel the desire heavy between his legs, but Jaskier is only human. He’ll need time to adjust, if he’ll be able to take Geralt again at all. It wasn’t fair to ask him to do this. “You can tell me to - “  
  
“Stop, yes, I know,” Jaskier says. He pats Geralt’s thigh and rolls his head back on his shoulder. “I’m not sure how you plan on getting me out of this hole in the morning because I can promise you, I’m not climbing anywhere.”  
  
Geralt hums and nuzzles against Jaskier’s cheek. He wants to tell him to rest, to conserve his energy, but the words don’t come. Eventually, the fire burns bright again, white hot, and Jaskier rides Geralt’s lap in the water to ease the tensions between them. Again and again, until Geralt is breathless and spent and Jaskier is barely able to keep his eyes awake through the gentle rocking.  
  
Jaskier falls asleep in Geralt’s arms when the moonlit shadows no longer flood them through the hole in the roof. Geralt is content to hold him and wait.

* * *

Getting out of the hole isn't easy. Jaskier squawks, rambling about how undignified it is to be carried like a sack of potatoes, and examines the rips in his doublet and trousers. The stone floor wasn't gentle on them, either. "I'm having a very rough time of it," Jaskier huffs, glowering at Geralt. "You could be more gentle."  
  
There's no fear or anger to spike the scent of his words, so Geralt chooses to ignore them. He'd almost forgotten the Bard's swollen ankle, so focused on every other aspect of his very lovely, little body -  
  
Geralt closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He shouldn't still feel this way. He shouldn't still be craving Jaskier's touch now that the moon has long gone down and they hobble their way back into town. Last night's hunt was a bust, but Geralt will get it tonight, that's what he needs to be focusing on. Not the way Jaskier leans into his side for help bearing his weight, scent still heavy with Geralt's seed.  
  
Jaskier strips as soon as they get to their shared room, throwing a dark look Geralt's way. "Don't think you can have your way with me again just yet. I'm _exhausted_." He wraps himself in the sheets and yawns loudly, like the sun isn't shining in their room inches from his face.  
  
Geralt isn't sure what to make of this. The scent of arousal still hangs heavy in the air between them, Jaskier's more than anything, now. He had meant to crawl in the bed behind Jaskier and sleep, like he has a hundred times before. Bed sharing happened, they've never made a big deal of it. Geralt hesitates though, and debates going downstairs for something to eat. Let Jaskier fall asleep.  
  
 _He doesn't want you anymore_. Jaskier has had him, after years of trying. He's seen what the fuss is about. The Bard doesn't need him anymore, not like that.  
  
Geralt will sleep on the floor, then.  
  
Something must show on his carefully schooled face, because Jaskier is sitting up suddenly and calling for him. He reaches out with open arms and Geralt moves to crawl between them without even thinking.  
  
"You daft idiot," Jaskier says, combing his fingers through Geralt's messy hair. "I was teasing. I was playing hard to get. Don't leave me if your heart is going to be breaking with every step."  
  
Geralt doesn't say anything, just rests his head on Jaskier's chest. If he turns his head slightly, he can kiss a bite mark left in the throes of passion that will take more than a few days to fade. Jaskier's heartbeat is strong, his arms warm, and Geralt is blaming the remnants of his Wolf for this desperate submission. He doesn't need to be _held_. He isn't a child.  
  
Still, it's nice.  
  
Jaskier's hands tracing his body soothingly, humming nonsensical words as he eases what tension he can. It's not the best position, Geralt pinning him in place on the bed, but it's not the worst one they've ever been in. If Jaskier will allow it, Geralt would like to be in it again, endlessly.  
  
"Do we need to talk about what happened last night?" Jaskier asked, fingers tracing lazy spirals into Geralt's back. He laughs, delicate and light, when Geralt huffs at him, and his arm slings tighter around Geralt's shoulders. "You licked my asshole. I think I'm allowed to ask if you intend to bed me again."  
  
Geralt hums. The answer is yes. Tonight and every night, until they're both black and blue just trying to keep up with each other's fervid desperation. But that's the Wolf talking. Geralt knows better. He can't stake a claim on something he has no right to cage. The Bard may bear his marks tonight but it's only because of a curse.  
  
"I'm not asking for commitment,"Jaskier says, eventually. "I know you're afraid of that sort of thing." Geralt growls and Jaskier puts on a show of rolling his eyes. "I just… maybe not tonight, but some night, it would be nice to be with you when you're… you. If you'll have me."  
  
 _Mine_ , a voice growls in the back of his head, and Geralt hums his agreement. It would be nice, to have Jaskier again. When he can take his time and explore every inch of his body all over again, not with the intention of claiming but to worship. To learn every sound that slips past his Bard's lips, see just how far he can bend in the throes of passion.  
  
"Not tonight," Geralt says. And he means to elaborate, that they still have a job that they still need the coin for, but Jaskier knows all that. Tonight Geralt will be busy and the soreness will truly start setting into Jaskier's body. They'll need to stick around for a few days, probably. Geralt can find work and Jaskier can rest, lamenting over every bruise.  
  
Geralt should have been more gentle, but, next time will leave them both just as marked and claimed.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Geralt/Jaskier, animalistic and possessive behavior, dub/non-con, still some tender feelings tho**  
>  Because (reason) ((probably curse)) (((it's always a curse))), Geralt's wolf school becomes a bit more literal and he's overtaken by wild, feral, wolf-like behavior. Thinking is pretty much just right out the door, as well as all of Geralt's carefully-cultivated control, as he's all just baser instincts now. Jaskier ends up trapped with him-- the person who cursed Geralt intended Jaskier to be killed/eaten-- but because of FEELINGS, Geralt just really wants to mate him instead.
> 
> The sex can vary in its intensity as much as you like as long as things don't become too like, permanently debilitating. Geralt can just end up taking Jaskier rough, or Geralt can be held off long enough (although pushy/whiny as he waits) for Jaskier to prepare himself somewhat so it won't be too painful.
> 
> Or like, rimming is an option.
> 
> Where the 'possessive behavior' bit comes in... I'd really like to see Geralt want to properly sort of claim Jaskier? With biting/scenting being part of it, preferably. He wants him, wants him under him, Jaskier is his, he's pack, he's mate, and Geralt is going to take him but he doesn't want anyone else to lay a hand on him.
> 
> Since this is my unrealistic kink meme desires, I'd like Jaskier to want Geralt as well before this whole thing pops off, and many many bonus points for them working through things enough that the ending is at least hopeful rather than sad. (I'm sure Geralt would be very unhappy with himself, and Jaskier probably isn't thrilled either, but he doesn't blame him for what happened.) But loving, tender resolution is my jam, if you'd be willing to write it. :)


End file.
